What it means to be Chosen.
The West District wasn't the kind of place where art exhibits usually happened.
At least not the kind of exhibits with name tags, linen-covered tables, or rows of professionally hung paintings.
But that Saturday, the converted warehouse on the corner of 7th and Oladele Avenue buzzed with energy.
Children ran in between easels and poster boards. Someone passed around juice boxes and tiny triangle sandwiches. Laughter echoed off the high ceilings, loud and unfiltered.
And in the middle of it all- was Mateo.
He wasn't in a suit.
He wore dark jeans and a navy sweater with the sleeves pushed up. His hair was slightly messy, like he'd been lifting crates or hanging paintings himself. Which, judging by the smudge of paint near his collarbone, was entirely possible.
He looked… soft.
Approachable.
Unscripted.
Elisa hadn't told him she was coming.
She wanted to feel what it was like to choose something without pressure. To say yes without being coaxed.
So when she stepped through the warehouse door and spotted him laughing with a little girl in pigtails who was proudly pointing to her crayon-and-glitter masterpiece, she knew she'd made the right decision.
Not because she wanted him.
But because this- this version of him- felt real.
And maybe it was time she let herself believe in real things.
~~~
She walked in slowly, shoulders squared.
She wore a simple black maxi dress, sleeves to her wrists, cinched at the waist. No makeup, no heels, no posturing.
Just herself.
When Mateo looked up and saw her, something shifted in his expression.
It wasn't surprise.
It was satisfaction.
Like he'd hoped, not assumed.
He didn't rush toward her. He didn't make a scene.
He simply raised a hand in quiet greeting, then excused himself gently from the kids and walked to where she stood near a display of watercolors.
"You came," he said, his voice low and warm.
"I wasn't sure I would."
"I was."
That startled her. "How?"
"You sent me a message. Not with words- but with silence. And with hope."
Elisa looked around, avoiding the weight of his gaze. "This place is incredible. These kids- "
"They're magic," he said, smiling softly. "They don't create with fear. They don't edit themselves to please an audience. They just... make."
She nodded slowly. "I remember when I used to paint like that."
He tilted his head. "What changed?"
"I started caring who was watching."
He didn't respond right away.
Then: "They're watching now, Elisa. And still- you showed up."
Her throat tightened.
She forced a smile. "Do I get a tour?"
He extended a hand, palm open.
She didn't hesitate this time.
Her fingers slipped into his.
~~~
They moved through the space slowly.
Mateo introduced her to the student artists- teenagers and toddlers alike. Some showed her sculptures made from recycled tin and cardboard. Others had painted bold, abstract emotions in neon color and thick texture. Elisa listened, knelt down when needed, and gave honest praise that made a few of them blush and grin with pride.
Mateo watched her the whole time.
Not possessively.
Just... attentively.
Like he was cataloging her kindness. Her way of making even shy kids feel like prodigies.
It wasn't the way he looked at her that made her chest ache.
It was the way he didn't look away.
~~~
Later, they sat side by side on a makeshift bench near the back of the gallery. Children ran past, sticky-fingered and sugar-rushed, shouting with delight.
Elisa sipped from a paper cup of warm orange soda.
"I like you like this," she said quietly.
"Like what?"
"Less curated."
Mateo arched a brow. "You think I'm curated?"
"I think you're always composed. Measured. This is... different."
"Do you like different?"
She met his eyes. "I'm learning to."
A long silence settled between them. Comfortable. Full of unsaid things.
Finally, he asked, "Would you consider another outing?"
Her chest fluttered.
She looked down at her cup.
"Not public," he added quickly. "Not staged. Just us."
Elisa paused.
"I don't date casually," she said. "And I don't want to play pretend forever."
"I'm not asking you to."
"Then what are you asking?"
Mateo turned slightly, his knee brushing hers. "Time. To get to know the woman you've hidden behind polite smiles and tight dresses."
She stared at him. "Why?"
"Because I think she's extraordinary."
Her breath caught.
"I'm not ready to be... anything," she whispered.
"That's fine."
"And I'm still figuring things out."
"So am I."
"I might run."
"I'll still be here."
Her heart felt too full for her chest.
She looked away, toward the wall where a little boy had drawn himself with huge wings and bright gold skin.
She smiled.
"Okay," she whispered. "One more outing."
Mateo nodded, expression unreadable.
But his hand was still warm in hers.
And this time, she didn't let go.